


The Birth of a Legacy

by Irishgrlnextdoor



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Daddy Issues, Family Dynamics, Family Issues, Growing Up, Mercenaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 06:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14868599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irishgrlnextdoor/pseuds/Irishgrlnextdoor
Summary: Grant Wilson is the first born son of Deathstroke, the world's greatest mercenary. Despite this, Grant’s story is never really one that is ever fully told.What would it really be like to grow up as the son of Deathstroke...Or for that matter, the son of Slade Wilson.





	The Birth of a Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> Please note for continuity: With several conflicting back-stories throughout the DC universes and contradicting timelines that made me want to pull my hair out- forgive me for picking and choosing and even fusing bits and pieces to craft a proper timeline to tell Grant’s story. If in this rendition events don’t match up to the Wilson back-story you are familiar with –forgive me- but that means I went with another DC universe’s telling of such events; or filled in ones that were omitted for Grant by referencing obscure flashback panels in the comics of his raising. 
> 
> Please enjoy.

* * *

 

“Your boys miss you, Slade.”

Silence followed, no acknowledgment given.

There was a soft shuffle of footsteps from the bottom of the stairs, and then Adeline more adamantly tried again. “You just got back a week ago. You can’t stay for one more night? For Christ’s sake, it’s Grant’s 8th birthday tomorrow. You missed the last two, Slade. Is it too much to ask that you be there for a handful of your own son’s birthdays?”

Another moment’s pause, and then finally a gruff reply came, “The contract has already been made and set. You know well enough by now what that means, Addie. My reputation-

“Is not in jeopardy here, Slade! Not over you leaving one night later. It’s like you take the contracts during times like this so that you don’t have to be here for them at all. So you don’t have to pretend to really be a part of this family.”

Grant sat against the wall at the top of the staircase, just around the corner where he couldn’t be seen as his parents argued below.

He had seen it coming. All day his mother had had that tension in her shoulders and that firm press to her lip whenever she looked at his father that meant he was going away for work again. That was why when he and his little brother Joey had been sent off to bed at the end of the night he had stopped at the top of the stairs, sitting down against the wall and being oh so careful to not move a single muscle for nearly two hours until his parents started their argument. They assumed he and his brother were sound asleep by then, but if he moved even an inch he would surely be caught by one or the other of them. His mother if he was unlucky… his father if he was damned. Sitting and waiting was his only chance to get away with listening in on them like this, and he had spent several nights and a couple harsh lessons perfecting his stillness and silence in the past.

The growl of his father’s voice was a warning towards his mother’s accusations when he answered. “A part of this family? I am the head of this family. I don’t have to be here to prove that, Adeline. I take the jobs that I do so that, as the head of this family, I can provide for you and the boys the best way I know how. The jobs I take and the reputation I keep are all a big part of that; keeping my name out there and big enough to ensure that all down the road the money I bring in and the respect and fear that this family’s name inspires never diminishes. Those are both going to serve Grant far more in the future than me being there tomorrow to watch him spit all over a birthday cake and pretend I’m interested in whatever shitty new baby toys you picked up for him.”

Grant didn’t hold his breath in thinking his father might hang around at all, but he tried not to feel the pain that balled in his chest anyway. The ground he had worked so hard to secure for spying was now becoming a prison trapping him there.

His mother’s voice became a little easier to hear in her anger from down below. “Don’t you dare act like you’re leaving tonight, right now, for his sake. I saw the original plane ticket you were sent, Slade. The one that didn’t have you setting out for Bulgaria until Tuesday! You were the one that moved it up to tonight.”

Grant bit down on his lip till it hurt, his head held up by the wall more than his own neck at that point. His face was hot, but again, he tried not to be surprised. Or hurt at all. His father hated it when he cried. It was weak. He was probably leaving early because Grant was weak in the first place.

“The target is a flight risk. If I wait till Tuesday they will just have to send me another ticket to somewhere else, and the job will take longer when he flees from there too. That’s why I’m going now. I will go. I will find him. I will be back here within a week… maybe two. I’m not going to spend a month chasing this bastard down. You want to tell me that I’m never here for the family, then I need you to recognize that if I go now I won’t be away for months rather than a week and drop this.”

A heavy silence followed, and Grant could practically picture his mother’s glare.

It was his father that eventually broke the pressing silence between them. “I am not continuing this argument with you. Grant will have you and his brother and whatever little pants-wetting friends you wrangled up for him at his party tomorrow and he will survive just fine. It’s more than most kids can ask for.”

His mother’s voice was a little softer, Grant’s only defense in a fight that was already lost. “You’re a better father to them than your father ever was to you, Slade- unquestionably. It’s not enough though; you can’t just not abuse them. They need you to still be here. They need you being a father to them. They need to be your sons. Not your burdens and your excuses for working as often as you do.”

His father’s voice was softer still, and Grant had to strain to hear it. “One day they will be ready for me to finally train them. Then when they are grown the world will know them for the elite mercenaries they are. It will recognize them as the sons of Deathstroke, and it will quiver in fear and awe of them.”

“And until then, where does that leave them? Can they not be your sons before they become Deathstroke’s?”

Another long silence was the only response that reached Grant from down below.

“Gwant?”

Grant nearly jumped out of his skin at the soft whine of his brother Joey from behind him. Not quite two yet, standing in the doorway to his nursery in a blue onsie and clutching a stuffed tiger in his arm.

Grant knew instantly that it had been enough to give away his position, confirmed by the sound of his parents shifting and going quiet below. He wanted to hit Joey for the betrayal, unintentional though it was, already full of frustration from what he had just overheard anyway and powerless to do anything to make it better.

The look on his face had Joey stepping back anyway, looking fearful of his older brother for a moment.

The sound of the front door closing echoed from below and Grant turned back to the staircase, knowing without even seeing it that his dad had left. He hadn’t even stopped to come up and punish them for being up, or Grant for spying on them. That had been left for their mother. Grant should have been relieved, but his stomach only twisted harder knowing that his dad couldn’t even stay long enough to punish them, much less say goodbye once he was aware they were awake.

After a few minutes Grant listened, unmoving, to the sound of his mother’s softer footsteps trudge slowly up the steps.

He had expected her to be angry, but when she came into view at the top she only looked tired as her eyes roamed over him sitting against the wall, and then Joey clinging to his tiger uncertainly.

“Mommy?” Joey piped up.

With a sigh, she gestured for Grant to get up and head to his room, which he slowly did. “Back to bed you two.”

“No Mommy, monsters!” Joey whined, looking on the verge of tears as clutched his tiger even tighter to him.

Grant wanted to hit him all over again. This was why their father didn’t want to stay, because he was weak, and Joey was weak.

Their mother sighed as she stepped by him and scooped Joey up onto her hip, ushering Grant along with a free hand on his shoulder towards his own room. “There are no monsters here baby,” she assured him tiredly.

“Da-da?” Joey whined in wanting.

His mother’s hand tightened on Grant’s shoulder, just a little bit, before it relaxed and she let out another tired sigh. “Daddy went to kill the monsters,” she simply replied.

The next day was Grant’s 8th birthday, and he hated every minute of the party his mother insisted he sit through. The whole time he felt like he could feel his father’s disapproval and disinterest of the whole thing. It was meant for babies, and the other kids that his mom had invited for him from his school acted like babies. He didn’t want his father to ever look at him as a baby again. If he wasn’t a baby he could be trained. He could be his son.

At one point his mother handed him a present, telling him that it was from his father. Grant had opened that one with a bit more interest. Inside had been the new Batmobile remote-control car that he had wanted so badly, all but begging for it every time one of the commercials played, showing off the toy rocket launcher and grappling hook that came out the front.

He knew instantly that his father had never gotten him this. Never would have. This was a toy for babies.

Grant put it back in the box and forced a stiff ‘thanks’, but never touched it again.

 

X

 

When Grant was 9 he learned that they were moving into a new house, he of course had entertained childish fantasies about what sort of house it would be. He had pictured everything from castles to haunted old farmhouses, being told along the way that he would ‘see when they got there’ by both his mother and father.

When they finally moved, however, and he finally got to see for himself… he had been in awe. He had thought their old house had been big enough, a suburban two-floor with a concrete basement that he would never admit to being scared of and a fenced in back yard. Their new one… it might as well have been a castle like Grant had imagined.

His mother had said something when they had first been told they were moving that his father’s work was going well, and he had taken enough jobs to afford something much nicer for them.

His father hand been staying there for about a week now, and Grant had ridden with his mother and Joey up the private drive located well outside any cities and craned his neck to try to see the top of the manor they eventually pulled up to.

Joey let out a ‘woop’ of excitement next to him. “All ours?!”

His mother smiled back at them in the rearview mirror. “That’s right, boys. The house and several acres around it that your father wants to use for hunting is all ours. He’s been getting it ready for us.”

“Which room is mine, Mommy?” Joey questioned, bouncing in excitement. As soon as the car stopped he would be out.

“We can figure that out once we get inside, Joey. You’ll have to be patient and wait for your father to show you where you boys are allowed. He’s been setting up security to keep us safe here for the last week. Make sure you both pay attention and mind him so you don’t get hurt. Understood?”

“Yes,” Grant and Joey rattled off absently. Grant shoved Joey back a bit roughly so he could look out his window at the giant house too.

“What does dad do?” he piped up, knowing just enough about money to know big houses like this belonged to those that were very rich. He wanted to know what job made his father this rich.

“Grant, I already told you before,” his mother admonished. “He is a hunter.”

“A monster hunter!” Joey chimed in with a grin.

Grant had classmates whose fathers hunted. They didn’t live in houses like this. He said as much and his mother sort of smiled.

“That’s because your father is the world’s best hunter, Grant. Okay boys, we’re home.”

Joey wrestled opened the door and took off like a shot, even though he was slow on his stubby child-legs still. Grant climbed across the seat to exit too rather than open his own door.

It was to Grant’s surprise when it wasn’t their father that met them at the door, but Wintergreen of all people.

A long-time friend of his father’s from the army, Wintergreen was one of the nicer adults Grant knew. The old Englishman’s smile was so unlike his own father’s, far more open and welcoming whenever he saw them. It was a pleasant surprise, at least, and Grant’s mood was further elevated by the prospects that the man might have brought his own son along with him.

“Welcome to your new home, boys!” he smiled, his English accent more prominent in his excitement to see them. “You both are getting so big! You’re going to be as tall as your mother in no time, Grant. Every time I see you I swear you look more and more like your father. Joey, I think the last time I saw you Adeline had to carry you around everywhere and now look at you running! Your dad is just inside, finishing up a few new installments in security and then we’ll see about getting you both shown around.”

“Is Peabody here?” Grant inquired, hoping to see the one friend he had bothered to really keep over the years.

Wintergreen smiled down at him with a nod. “I think you’ll find him in the garages, but don’t go wandering off, Slade will be out shortly.”

The house was wide enough that the garages were actually a fair jog down on his short legs, but Grant reached them fine, excited to see through one of the stall doors that had been left open that Wintergreen’s son, Peabody, was indeed inside, tinkering with some spare engine parts. The garage was also huge, big enough to fit six vehicles, three wide and two deep; and then there looked to be a work-shop located off the side of that that Peabody was sitting in the door of. “Peabody!” Grant beamed, jogging over to the other boy.

Wintergreen’s only son was about his age, and although their fathers’ friendship meant they got to see each other regularly, it had still been a few months. Peabody smiled and waved back at him as he approached, setting aside the spare part he had been trying to take apart. “Man, I’m glad to finally see you here. This past week has been boooooring!”

Grant could assume so. Their fathers both had tunnel vision when they were working on something and it was usual for Grant and Peabody to have to find something to do ‘out of the way’.

The only reason Peabody got carted around at all with his father for stuff like this was because his father was the only one he had, where as Grant and Joey had a mother at least.

“It’s good to see you.” Grant sat down on the cement floor of the garage next to the other boy, glad for the cool relief as opposed to the warm weather.

“Your house is huge,” Peabody reminded him, as if Grant couldn’t tell that much from the outside. It probably was way bigger on the inside though.

“Your dad works with mine a lot, maybe soon you will be getting a new house like this too.”

Peabody laughed like Grant had said something funny. “We have a really nice apartment in London, but my dad isn’t making the kind of money your dad must be, but that probably okay. At least people have to pay your dad a lot of money for his work. It would probably be really sad actually if it wasn’t really expensive to have someone like him kill someone for you.”

Grant’s brows drew in confusion at that. “My- my dad is a hunter.” He meant it as a statement, but by the end he sounded more like he was asking a question even to himself.

Peabody just stared back at him for a moment, like Grant had said something obvious, but random. “Yeah, though my dad told me it was called ‘mercenary work’ when it involves people.”

Grant was further confused. “Mercenary?”

“Grant!”

“Peabody!”

The sound of their father’s voices calling for them caused both boys to jump in surprise. Peabody recovered with a small smile and shoved Grant’s knee as he climbed to his feet. “Come on man, time to see your new house.”

Grant got up, but his legs felt funny beneath him, like they had started to fall asleep, but that wasn’t quite it. They wandered out of the garage and went over to join Joey and the adults, Grant’s father towering over all of them. He was a solid wall of muscle and a hard stare that could shoot through you faster than any bullet. Grant didn’t even have to wonder if Peabody had maybe been mistaken. It suddenly clicked together for him and he knew that his friend wasn’t wrong. There was no way his father wouldn’t be capable of it. Grant knew that he had had to kill in the army. It was only fitting that his father hadn’t left that behind. Those hard and focused blue eyes turned to him and Grant lowered his own matching ones instinctively as they approached, about to be shown into the home that his father had killed for.

That was the day Grant learned what his father really was, what he did.

It wasn’t until the following summer that Grant learned he was going to grow up to be the same.

 

X

 

“Shoulders down, shallow breaths, don’t pull the trigger, squeeze it.”

His father’s voice was soft in his ear, but his tone was absolute. Grant did as he was told, not even flinching when the gun went off in his hands once more, the bullet hitting the next can that his father had set up for him and sending it flying from the rock it had sat on.

His father’s hand on his shoulder was encouraging, “Good, good progress. That’s your first time hitting three for three with no misses.”

Grant was beaming as he lowered the gun and soaked up the praise. For his last birthday his father had been there. Just the family this time, and Grant had received his first gun from his father. He had never been so excited for any gift ever before in his life. This one he knew really came from his father. His own private collection, handed down to his son.

It was the first time in his life that Grant could recall ever getting so much of his father’s undivided time and attention after that. He had spent a few hours with him nearly every afternoon for weeks going over everything from the build of the gun to the history and the cleaning and care of it. Then finally, when Grant had memorized nearly everything he had been taught he had been taken out to learn how to actually use it. His father had worked with him for the past week with his aim and accuracy, praising Grant for being a fast learner. A natural really.

Grant’s confidence grew as his skill did, and while his younger brother shied away from weapons of any kind, he started asking his father to teach him more.

His father did.

Whenever he was home he made time for Grant to show him different weapons and teach him all about them. When he was away he would usually leave Grant with a book or two to read about famous battles and warriors of history. When he returned home he would sit down with Grant and talk about them with him.

They were a few of the best years Grant had ever had with his father.

By the time he was twelve and enrolled in the finest military school in the world he already knew more than half the teachers about such things. That was okay, however, because Grant managed to learn other things there.

He learned that he was bigger than most of the boys in his grade, for instance, which was nice after so many years being dwarfed by his father. He had started to think of himself as downright puny, but the opposite was true.

He learned he was smarter and stronger and faster than nearly his entire grade, and those that he wasn’t better than he easily overcame once he made it his business to do so. He was popular, well liked by most of the guys for his athletisism and knowledge of guns. The few that didn’t like him or kiss up to him were mostly just jealous of him. After Grant got into his first fight with one of them and managed to beat the other boy easily and brutally he became known as something of a ‘tough guy’.

He had been placed on probation, cleaning detail for weeks, but when the school had alerted his mother her response had been to inquire if he was hurt and when she had been told no her response had simply been, ‘Good, I will let my husband know’.

A week later Grant had gotten a package in the mail from his father. It had been a roll of boxing tape and a book on the art of hand to hand combat.

Grant had spent a whole week with a grin on his face and shadow-boxing at night in his room for hours.

When he was in his final year of enrollment at the age of 16 the academy had hosted a few dances for the cadets before their graduation. Grant had quickly learned that he was handsome as well as popular. The girls had watched him, several approaching him. They had paid way more attention to him than many of his fellow classmates and practically did all the flirting for him. He didn’t even have to really try. Grant got his first kiss from one of the prettiest ones in a stairwell, and later that night he got his second kiss from a different one.

Needless to say, he graduated from the academy with a very healthy ego and top marks in all his evaluations.

 

X

 

Later that same year he was sent to a different facility, this one specifically meant to focus on giving him the specific training he would need to one day become the mercenary he was born and bred to be. The instructors varied greatly, some military, some with more… colorful backgrounds. All exceptionally talented and dangerous to some extent or another. All were EXTREMELY well paid for their time.

The objective for those enrolled was to survive and thrive there so they could continue to do so after they left to follow whatever dangerous ambitions they had. All kinds came through this facility that didn’t officially exist. Some wanted to become hitmen, mercenaries, bounty hunters, or just wanted the training to survive as enforcers for those who might employ them to go up against other heroes and villains alike.

There were other paths that could be followed there as well. The facility was home to some of the most brilliant though amoral scientific minds, willing to further the knowledge of those willing to pay them for it. Brilliant engineers and strategists could be accessed there as well, for those going into supportive roles.

To Grant’s surprise and delight, Peabody was there too, starting out along with him, recommended by Slade just like he was. He would be going through training in combat to prepare him for being in the field later. His specialty was to be engineering and computer science that would eventually aid Slade and Grant’s mercenary work. Grant’s training was to be rigorous and grueling, but his goal had never been closer.

His father had taken a side job at the facility just a few years prior. Because of his reputation and undeniably superior talents and skills, he had been placed in charge of instructing only the very finest, allowed to handpick every member of his team to train and prepare. Grant wasn’t privy to all the details yet, but he knew that his father’s methods were different from any of the other instructors at the facility. While everyone paid upfront for instructors of their own choosing, Slade did the picking of who he wanted to teach, and they didn’t pay anything for the training upfront. Instead those individuals entered into agreements to pay him a small percentage of any and all commissions they made down the line. Since they were then turned out into the world with elite skills and a much lower mortality rate, this actually made his father far more money in the long run. Not to mention, having the name Deathstroke attached to them allowed for those he had trained to charge much higher fees straight out the gate than others. Grant could appreciate his father’s business prowess with it all.

Even he, however, wouldn’t get selected without first proving himself an elite student, but just like at the academy, he was determined to reign supreme here as well.

With Peabody at his side, they went through some of the same instructors together, honing their skills to one day be unmatched in their specific fields. Just like at the academy, Grant quickly started to stand out, natural talent and drive taking him far in a relatively short amount of time. Rarely did he get to see his father, only once or twice in passing. Slade hadn’t spoken to Grant at the secret facility, so Grant had kept a respectful distance for the time being. He had too much pride to want others thinking he was doing as well as he was because of any sort of special treatment. He had no doubts that he would get his chance, prove himself elite in his own worth before officially joining his father’s select group soon enough. His abilities were undeniable.

He and Peabody were both a year into the facility’s training, and under the instruction of Hunter Zolomon when Grant finally got his chance.

Grant weaved through the obstacle course easily, familiar with the program that was mostly just running and shooting and looking out for the occasional variable thrown into it. He kept the laser guns used for practice up and hit every target set up along the way, occasionally stopping to wait for Peabody since this lap wasn’t being timed. This one was for them to work on accuracy, and Peabody being along for it helped stave off some of the boredom Grant felt from having run it time and time again. They had just entered the last leg of the course when Peabody caught Grant’s attention and motioned to one of the catwalks overhead used for overseeing their progress through the course.

Zolomon was up there, as was usual, but this time Deathstroke was up there too. His father was wearing his full regalia armor and helmet, watching them as they went through their paces. Grant felt his excitement rise for what that meant, making sure that he went through the last part of the obstacle course in superb form, refusing to let himself seem even remotely winded at all with his father watching. He was only a little sweaty anyway.

Zolomon and Deathstroke stayed above as the few others under Zolomon’s instruction started to come out of the course one by one. They were speaking to each other up above, but super hearing just wasn’t one of Grant’s abilities, and the mask his father wore made lip-reading impossible. Zolomon wasn’t doing most of the talking.

After a moment Zolomon turned to the curious spectators below. “Take another lap through the course. You may begin… now.”

Anxious for the chance to show off, Grant dashed past several of his peers, a few keeping pace for the chance to prove themselves as well.

Fat chance. Grant was easily the fastest of them, the most accurate with his shots. He managed to gain a lead fairly early, keeping it steady and pulling just far enough ahead that he didn’t have to worry about any of the others beating him through the course. He focused on executing text-book-perfect form and stances throughout the rest of the course, nailing even the most difficult of shots with the laser gun along the way.

He was the first one out by a fair distance, pleased to see Zolomon and Deathstroke had already come down from the catwalks to meet him at the finish line. Neither said a word to him at first, waiting while his peers eventually came through the other side as well. That was fine, Grant preferred for the others to be there actually. Witnesses only made it even better.

Once all were gathered and waiting to be assessed, and Grant could barely stand to wait any longer, Deathstroke finally turned to Zolomon. “No potentials this time.”

With that, he simply turned to leave.

Grant… he was beside himself in indignant shock. He had gone through the course head and shoulders above everyone else. No potential-  
“Hey!” he barked after his father, unable to control himself otherwise in his outrage for being overlooked like that. His father knew he had talent; he had skills above and beyond all those around him. He excelled at everything he did.

How could his father dare to just pass him up like this? Humiliate him like this? His peers knew who he was, knew who Slade Wilson was to him. They probably expected Grant to be recruited even more than he did.

Deathstroke stopped in the doorway, and suddenly the air in the room felt thick with tension, like a toxin- dangerous to even breathe in.  
Grant raised his chin to it defiantly. “I have run that boring course so many fucking times I could tell you the exact shade of paint picked up from Home-fucking-Depo to color the walls of it! Just now I completed it faster than anyone else here!” Grant protested, lost as to what justified his father’s indifference.

Nobody else in the room seemed willing to so much as swallow the spit in their mouths as they watched Grant fume at the legendary mercenary.

Deathstroke turned his head only slightly to the side, barely acknowledging him at all. “Did you think anything you did just now was impressive?” His voice was a firm growl of warning, the kind that Grant had grown up afraid of hearing because it was the equivalent of a final warning for he and his younger brother.

Now, practically a man, he refused to let that cause him to cower. It was time for his father to recognize him, and he would be damned if he let himself be slighted instead. “I was the fastest-

Deathstroke turned on him suddenly and several of Grants peers took a collective step back, Grant refusing to give an inch as the cold white lenses of his father’s mask focused upon him despite the chill that crept up his spine and stood his hairs on end. “Compared to what?” Deathstroke prompted in a tone as cold and flat as the stare of his mask. “Compared to the facility’s top records? Compared to the fastest you are capable of running? Or just compared to the next guy behind you? Tell me which is it?”

Grant tried not to show too much in his face, but he didn’t know that the records were… he hadn’t looked at them really. He did know he hadn’t actually run his very fastest… but he had still done well… hadn’t he? He had focused on other things to make up for his speed too. “My accuracy-

“ -using flashing toys rather than real weapons that are heavy and jerk about when they shoot on stationary targets. You should be embarrassed if you missed any at all at this point.” Deathstroke countered before he could even finish that thought.

Peabody ducked his head slightly in embarrassment from behind Grant. He had missed one during the course.

Grant grit his teeth, his fists curled tight on either side of himself in sheer frustration. “My stances and form-

A cruel and un-amused chuckle escaped from behind the mask at that. “You have to be kidding me. Your form? Do I look like a dance instructor to you?” It was question promising a lot of pain to anyone stupid enough to answer it. “Your form was enough to keep you from falling on your ass, but that was about it. Nothing that will get you a scholarship to Juilliard if you’re rethinking staying in this business.”

No one dared laugh.

Grant’s temper was at its limit. “Fuck all that then! You want me to run the course again to prove I have what it takes then I can-

“Forget it. You had your chance already to prove yourself as an elite trainee and you did the bare minimum of what was expected from you. It was shameful enough to just watch.”

Grant’s blood ran cold at that. His vision flashed red for a moment and he all but snarled as he struggled to keep any control of his anger. Shameful. The word raced through his mind, the only thing he could hear for a few long moments before he finally found the will to growl out through his rage. “But… but you know what I’m capable of- you know that I deserve to be under your instruction. To be recognized as superior- elite. I’ve earned it damn it! It’s the least that I’m due after all this time and all the fucking work I’ve put in!”

His anger had the better of him, or he might have noticed the way Zolomon winced and backed away from Deathstroke, almost instinctively.

“You’re questioning my call?”

“When it’s the wrong one- yeah,” Grant huffed, though even as he was saying it some voice from far back in his head was screaming for him to stop. He wasn’t in the wrong on this though, was he? He had indeed worked hard, putting in every effort to be the best in anything he did. Maybe he didn’t know what the records were here, but he could overcome those too if he wasn’t already smashing them. Maybe he already was. None of the others of his peers actually sucked at what they were doing, he was just that good. He knew he was. Even if he didn’t pull out every stop for a mediocre course he had passed a billion times already. Surely his father knew that too.

His father hadn’t moved a muscle, the cold mask giving away nothing as Grant maintained that false stare.

Finally, his father shifted his weight and jerked his chin to indicate Grant follow. “Come prove it to me then.”

Grant felt the tension ease off his shoulders, shocked and pleased to be getting another chance. Peabody reached out like he might try to grab him, but dropped his hand back when Grant gave him a reassuring smirk and followed Deathstroke from the room. Peabody didn’t look assured at all, but he would see. Grant had a cocky streak, but it was well earned, and he couldn’t think of anything his father could put him through here that he couldn’t face. Zolomon was considered the second toughest instructor currently employed by the facility, and Grant was bored and under-stimulated at this point.

Deathstroke said nothing more to him, nor ever looked back to see if he was being followed.

Grant followed him nearly to the opposite side of the facility and then into the elevator, a special key his father had taking them down to sub-levels normally blocked off to everyone. He wasn’t worried. He knew that’s where the elite training occurred. Where his father shaped those of superior caliber into top performers in their fields to go out and make insane amounts of money to pay back to him till either he died, or they did.

Grant stepped off the elevator, but his father held up an arm to indicate he stop a moment. “You can lose that glorified flashlight,” he indicated of the laser gun Grant was still carrying.

Grant set it aside without fuss or much care, ready for the next level- whatever it was.

Deathstroke continued down a steel corridor with minimal lighting to a very simple-looking steel door at the end. He scanned a key-card and entered a pass-code before the door unlocked with a heavy ‘Thud’ and he led the way inside.

Grant had been expecting… he wasn’t entirely sure, but the practice room that he walked into wasn’t it. It was incredibly lack-luster compared to what he had been expecting, hardly more than a normal practice gym, although kept in immaculate condition. It made Zolomon’s simulations and obstacle courses look daunting. There were weights to set up to the far side of the room for different workouts, albeit modified to start at about 200lbs each. A running track circled the perimeter of the large room, and three different circles in the middle boasted sparring areas. The other side was home to various practice dummies. Some looked new, others looked… murdered… brutally. Beyond one side of the track was a soundproof glass wall showing a fire range on the other side. The most impressive part of the simplified room was probably just the people already gathered.

This group was all male, just eight of them. All were in peak physical condition, and all seemed to just emit a don’t-fucking-fuck-with-me aura. Until Slade walked in anyway.

The second he was in the room all the men gathered dropped everything they were doing and lined up in a formation that was absolutely flawless. Not a single sound was made. Not a comment, not a cough… perfect silence as they waited instruction like their lives depended on it.

This was what Grant had been waiting for. This was a level worthy of him and he wanted to prove his superiority over these men as well.

Deathstroke didn’t instruct for him to join the lineup, so he hung back… for now.

Instead, the older man walked the formation in a slow sweep, making sure everyone was as perfect as they seemed. It was like everyone held their breath while he did this, a thick tension in the air. Once he finally seemed satisfied, no one moved a muscle, but it still felt like a weight lifted. A few of them were even bigger and more jacked than his father was, but it was certain all of them had a lot of respect for him. Or, perhaps, fear.

“Alright ladies, we’re going to be doing laps. We have a lamb joining in the slaughter today, Grant Wilson, my first born. He says he’s due. Says he has earned it. Try not to slip on the snail trail from his vag as you go.”

Grant knew hazing. Intimately familiar with it after growing up in a military family. He wasn’t fazed by it in the slightest. It was one of the first and most basic academy tactics used to alienate and break down those that were mentally co-dependent and soft. There wasn’t a single doubt in his mind that his father had gone through it too in his early military days, possibly even from Grant’s own mother too when she was first made his captain, so he didn’t give it a single thought. It was just part of the game.

The men before Slade gave no outward reaction, Grant followed their lead.

Deathstroke spread his hands out like he was questioning them all. “Laps don’t run themselves.”

The eight gathered didn’t need further instruction, turning to run over to the closest part of the track. Grant didn’t roll his eyes at his father’s posturing, but on the inside he wanted to as he joined them.

Laps. There was little easier than just running in a circle for a while. He was beginning to wonder just how this was supposed to train anyone to be elite.

As soon as the others hit the track, Grant was caught by surprise when they all started running… really running. Not the kind of pacing that would normally take place track running, but full on sprinting. From the word go. They left Grant in their wake at first, but he pumped his legs and was able to catch up quickly enough, slowly working his way through the pack towards the front. No one tried to block him, surprisingly enough. Actually, others got out of his way and each other’s as they ran. No one seemed concerned with the position they held, merely on running as fast as they could. The group naturally spread out by the second lap, Grant second from the lead. There was no slowing down at the finish line at all, it was ignored as everyone powered through it. By the third lap Grant’s legs were just starting to get warm with the strain of his driving pace, sweat forming along his hairline. No one seemed to be slowing down though, or backing off from the full-run. By the start of the fourth lap Grant realized he had never heard a number for how many laps they were supposed to run, glancing to his father, who was standing in the center of the room, watching everyone’s progress without comment.

Grant gave a shake of his head and tried to refocus on his running. Maybe he hadn’t heard. The others kept running, and so he would too. He could keep up, and he would run as long as they did.

After they completed the fourth lap Deathstroke finally moved, in no hurry as he started dragging hurdles out onto the track in almost a lazy manner… sporadically placed and not in every lane. Grant had one, he jumped it easily enough and continued round, watching out of the corner of his eye as his father moved to the other end of the room and started dragging another set out onto the track for them to jump on the next lap.

It was nearly fifteen laps in before Grant started to get a little nervous, sweat running down his back and pits and neck to stain his shirt. The others were drenched too, but still continued to run as hard as they could, though everyone had slowed naturally just a bit because of the mounting exhaustion, though still the finish line was ignored.

It was on the 21st lap that someone finally failed one of their hurdles, crashing to the track before they rolled and jumped right back up into their full run once more, no stopping. Each lap contained seven jumps for Grant. Some lanes had as many as ten. Some as few as three. If there was a pattern Grant couldn’t see it like his father seemed to be able to.

He had no idea how long they ran, but it felt like hours rather than minutes and Grant was starting to lose count of the laps. It was maybe the 32nd or 33rd one that he stumbled on a hurdle, only to have his stomach heave on him and he had to stop a moment, thinking he was going to get sick all over the track as he retched.

It was only an instant before his father’s mask was right there, right next to his face and that hard tone was a warning in his ear. “Who told you to stop?”

Obviously he was on the verge of puking his guts out, unable to even say as much as sweat poured off his face.

Deathstroke wasn’t waiting for an answer though. “You. Don’t. Stop. Not unless you die or I tell you to stop. Do you see anyone else stopping?”

Grant coughed rather than answer, and his father’s face got even closer, nearly mask to skin to berate him.

“Do you see anyone else stopping?” he demanded, just short of shouting in Grant’s ear.

“No,” Grant barely managed to force out rather than his own stomach contents.

“That’s because they’re not dead and I didn’t tell them to stop. You want to be one of them? Or are you just using my name to pretend that you’re one of them? Trying to slip into here using nepotism just so you can spit up all over my fucking floor like you’re still seven years old and cramming poptarts down your throat like it’s okay because you think daddy and mommy will clean it up for you?”

Grant flinched at that, shocked at his father’s words. Grant had actually gotten sick when he was seven from eating a full box of poptarts. Really sick. He never ate pop tarts again, not because he didn’t want to, though it wasn’t high on his list of wants, but because Slade told his mom not to buy them anymore, and she hadn’t. He could still remember crying pitifully against his mother’s leg as his father scrubbed at the puke and cursed in frustration every now and then, leveling Grant with a stare that very much said it was his fault for being stupid and greedy.

“What these other people are training for is to be the very best in the various fields they are going into. They are putting their all into it to be the best so that they can stay alive. In the kind of work you will be going into, Grant, if you’re not the best that means that someone else out there that can kill you. If you need to stop again before I tell you to, your ass better be on the other side of that door headed back to Hunter’s class or I will pump a piece of lead into you myself because in the field that means you’re dead.”

His tone was deadly serious, but Grant could still scarcely believe he had just threatened him like that, meeting those white lenses that gave away even less than those blue eyes underneath ever would. Grant didn’t believe he was… but to believe he wasn’t…

“Either move to that door, or get moving around this track. Which is it going to be, Boy?” continued that same low warning tone.

Grant wanted to be there. He wanted to be seen as an elite mercenary. He WAS elite. Always. He belonged in this training program more than any of the others. Everyone else saw the potential in him. Everyone. He had been running harder than most of the others up to this point, but still his father gave no acknowledgements to him. It was almost like he didn’t actually want Grant there, keeping his boot on his back.

If Grant walked out that door…

Whether from pride or ego, he wouldn’t do it. If he did it would be like a full admission that Deathstroke was right, that he had slacked off too much rather than pushing himself at all times, relying on just being better than the next person rather than the very best he was capable of. Admitting that he wasn’t ready for this. That he wasn’t elite like he and everyone else had come to see himself as.

He dug deep, finding a shaky second wind and spit out some of the stomach bile that had made it up into his saliva so he could start running again. Deathstroke moved back from the track to continue observing without further comment, but the tension was thicker than ever in the room.

He was a full lap behind, at least, but nobody seemed to be counting down laps, just running as best they could. Maybe the point was to run until they all collapsed.

Grant didn’t know. He couldn’t worry about it anymore either. He was too exhausted to think of anything but running. One foot in front of the other was becoming his only focus, trying not to crash when hurdles snuck up on him.

Salvation seemed to come during the next lap, as they circled around to where Deathstroke was waiting for them he called for three names to take a seat.

Grant’s wasn’t one of them though, and he fought not to show any of his confusion or anger as he continued to run with the others. On the next lap two more names were called. Again Grant’s wasn’t one.

His whole body started shaking, pushed nearly to its limit, and still he ran yet another lap, his mind a fog of exhaustion, and anger at the unfairness of it all.

On the next circle as they neared the mercenary Grant’s whole body started to tremble with the strain, keeping his head up in near desperation to keep his focus on his father, willing him to give the mercy of telling Grant he could stop at last and acknowledge that he had made it.

His father only had one name this time. “Rodreguiz.”

There were still two more running with Grant, not showing near the strain that Grant knew he was at this point. Grant only made it a few steps past Deathstroke when he collapsed onto the track, his body all but melting against the ground in relief as his muscles cried out in protest and his heart hammered in his chest like it might give out. It was all too much for him.

His father’s voice vaguely barked over his head. “Cortez, Andrews, take a seat.”

Grant was soaked through with sweat, his head pounding against the track to the point he could barely even see, much less register anything happening around him as he gasped to catch his breath. He knew the others were still in the room, but only instinctually. A part of him wondered if they were looking down on him too now, thinking he wasn’t ready. A part of him didn’t care if he didn’t belong at that moment so long as he could rest.

“Wilson, I did not order you to stop. Are you dead?”

Someone was shouting at him. The fact that it had to be Deathstroke and what it was he had said only began to register around the corners of Grant’s mind when the sound of a gunshot broke into his conscious loud and clear and the searing fire burning up his leg ripped him into focus with a horrendous scream.

His father was there, walking up to him from a few paces away, gun only starting to lower in his hand.

Grant curled up to grab his leg, screaming again before he could bite down on his lip till it bled in reaction to being shot.

Deathstroke pushed the mask back, his blue eyes strictly business as he squatted down and shoved one of Grant’s hands out of the way to inspect it. “It’s just through the flesh. In and out. Nothing vital. You probably wouldn’t even bleed out if you left it.”

Grant continued to pant, but that was all he could really manage as he stared back at his father in a shock deeper than any he had ever felt before. Uncomprehending the situation, or the cold methodical reaction of his father to what he had just done.

He met Grant’s stare with near indifference to his pain or shock, stripping off an orange bandana from his arm to wrap tightly around the wound to stop the bleeding. “You would officially be dead in the field. A mediocre mercenary. Now drag yourself out if you have to, but don’t come back until you actually belong here.”

Grant knew he couldn’t test him any further. He wasn’t sure if he would survive it if he did anymore. He tried not to look over and meet the stares he could feel from the other trainees, certain that they thought he was ridiculous, undeserving. Or as his father had put it earlier; shameful.

He bit down on his lip to cut off a cry that almost escaped as his leg burned like it was in a fresh fire as he struggled to pull himself around towards the door. He wasn’t going to be able to stand. He would have to crawl.

The humiliation was complete as he rolled onto his stomach.

He couldn’t help himself, glancing over to the trainees under his father’s instruction.

Rather than seeing the looks of disdain that he had expected, most looked on in mixes of pity and horror, as if they couldn’t even believe what had just happened despite the clear fear and respect they had already previously accrued for Deathstroke. In awe that the man had just clipped his own son so coldly just to make a point.

He had been afraid of seeing disdain, but it was even worse to see that.

Grant bit down on his lip again and used every bit of strength he had in him to drag himself to the door.

Over his shoulder he heard his father addressing the recruits once more, “Back on your feet girls. Pair off for sparring. Move!”

The last command might as well be for Grant, who pulled himself through the door with a deep growl through his jaws. He hated him.  
He hated them all. He would not let this stand. He would show them. Show Slade. Even if it killed him.

Blessedly, Peabody was already waiting at the elevator when it got back to the ground floor, willing to grab his friend and pull him up on his shoulder so they could stagger to the infirmary together. Peabody didn’t say anything about the shape Grant was in, or who had obviously done it to him. Grant had already seen it though, on Peabody’s face had been the same shocked look of deep pity for him.

Grant would show him too. He would train harder, get faster, stronger. He would be the best. He would never be humiliated like that again. The next time it would be Slade’s turn to admit he was the one in the wrong. Grant would return the favor to him one day, pay him back every ounce of humiliation he had just suffered. It would take years, decades perhaps… but if there was anything he had learned today it was the merit of patience.

Grant got patched up in the infirmary, but the leg needed time to heal, so he was forced to return home for a few weeks, tail between his legs. His injury didn’t make it by his mother unnoticed, though he tried his best not to limp.

He refused to tell her what had happened, but she refused to let him go without allowing her to inspect and redress the wound. The sight of the wound had her pursing her lips, eyes alight with outrage, but she said nothing more to her son about it directly. “Are you going to quit your training?” was all she asked in a flat voice.

Grant was more resolute than ever, shaking his head ‘no.’ “I’ll get better,” he promised, not talking about his wound.

“Good,” was the only response his mother gave, leaving him to rest on the couch.

 

X

 

Grant slept through his father returning home that night, but the next day when he limped into the dining room for breakfast he was there, eating in silence as usual while looking through the paper, hardly giving Grant any acknowledgement.

Joey must have still been sleeping, but his mother was up, waltzing in from the kitchen with her own cup. “Good morning, Grant,” she smiled in an easy sort of way as she sat down at the table next to his father, who continued to flip through the paper.

Grant gave a nod of greeting as he half slid and half fell into his own seat next to his father. No one gave any notice of Grant’s injury, but Grant was momentarily stunned when he noticed his father had an injury of his own that morning.

Scabbed over at this point, but fresh enough he had to have gotten it just last night, Slade had a few scratches down the back of his left cheek and along the curve of his jaw that Grant was certain hadn’t been there during his little training fiasco.

Adeline saw his notice of it, but she gave no reaction to it as she sipped at her coffee. “Can I get you a cup, dear?”

Grant could hardly keep the confused surprise from his face, but nodded his head at length. “Y-yeah. Fine. Thanks.”

 

X

 

By the end of the year he had more than healed, he had flourished, smashing his previous records under Hunter’s instruction and pushing himself ever harder to keep breaking his own records until at last Deathstroke returned to observe him.

This time, there was no having to jockey for position. He was only one foot out of the course when Deathstroke finally recruited him for further training.

 

X

 

Grant stared down at the plate of food in front of him. It was a regular dish. Goulaush. Home made; if you counted their cook Maria making it in the home anyway. Neither of his parents had cooked anything in years… probably for the better actually. Neither had any talent for it.  
It was really good; usually Grant could shovel in at least two plates of it. More if they still had any parmesan left after that.

Tonight he didn’t touch it. Couldn’t bring himself to after what had happened just a few short hours ago. The red mess of noodles and ground meat… his stomach turned.

At the head of the table, just to his right, his father was already about finished with his own plate, eating wordlessly as he always did when he managed to share a meal with them.

Grant’s mind failed to comprehend just how normal his father was- for him anyway-, unaffected by anything that had just happened. Grant knew he needed to be too, he felt stupid for going through any sort of shock at all, having always had a clear understanding of just how dirty a job merc work would be. Today he had gotten intimate with that knowledge for the first time, however, and he wasn’t shaking it as quickly as he had always thought he would.

Now about four months out of training under his father, successfully finishing leaps and bounds ahead of anyone else under Slade’s instruction, he had two jobs officially under his belt.

He had been expecting merc work right off the bat of course, but the jobs Slade had taken him along on had instead been security duty.

Boring.

Standing guard over some politician while they gave a boring speech and then walking them back home like some prom date from hell. Grant had been frustrated the first time, regardless of the outstanding pay. He felt like a glorified baby sitter. It squandered all his training.

The second job, that they had just come back home from, had been the same, and at first Grant had been even more bitter about it.

Compared to the first job, this one had seemed even more insulting. Some official that had been completely unknown to him and an even smaller team. Not even any speeches to give, this time their job was to basically walk him from his car to a courthouse, and then they were done.

Slade had seen Grant fuming in his assigned location, had warned him to stay sharp. Grant had listened, for a few minutes anyway, until the boredom frustrated him once more. The official showed up just fine. Mobs of people and press and protesters trying to clog up the path to the courthouse, but none about to do anything more than maybe scream a few insults or questions at the guy.

He got out of the car just fine, looking resolute in making his way up to the courthouse. Grant had taken his position at the guy’s 1 o’clock to head in, another guard behind him at the guy’s 3 and Slade flanking at the 5 o’clock with the same set up on the other side of the official. Just six guys for this one. Hardly worth concern at all. Not even anyone staked out in the crowd or above to oversee. This was usually the case when it was actually unlikely something would happen, merely a show of force to discourage anyone with a crazy idea.

Grant had been too engrossed in his own internal huff over being on babysitter duty once more for slightly less pay than the first job to notice the threat, and that was exactly why it had tried to go through him in the first place. Some twerpy looking little guy that was balding and looked about 90 lbs soaking wet wearing a pastel pink polo was passively looking uninterested one moment, and then delivered an expert judo chop to Grant’s collar bone that dropped him to his knees as his body tried to understand the sudden shock it had received.

Instantly grant had understood the guy was actually a professional.

At the same moment he understood that he had fucked up. With him down the guy had a precious second in the confusion to pull a gun out and lift it up past Grant’s nose to over his head, level for a kill shot at the official they were supposed to protect.

Grant’s training went out the window in that first second of panic, so caught off guard that the best he could do was swing up and knock the gun aside less than a second before it went off without any thought to the direction it went. The bullet pierced the skull of the guard that had been stationed to the official’s 3 o’clock, dropping him instantly.

It opened up the path Slade needed, gun drawn and aimed and he pumped two shots into the assassin, killing him just as quickly.

With the first man down Grant saw the second one coming up behind him, his training finally kicking in and his body reacting almost entirely on ingrained reflex as he whipped out his own firearm and took the second one out with a single bullet between the eyes.

Still struggling to breathe through the hit he had received, undoubtedly some sort of advanced judo, he got back on his feet and Slade moved in to cover the guard they had just lost to complete the mission.

Only then did Grant even register the chaos and confusion that had overcome the crowd, everyone running and screaming. The official was panicked too, ready to bolt if his own task force hadn’t been blocking him in. Under Slade’s calm command they had pressed forward and delivered him safely into the courthouse. The cleanup had kept them there for several hours longer.

Slade had yet to say a word to him about his screw up that cost them a teammate and nearly cost them the mission.

He hadn’t been ready. He hadn’t treated it as seriously as he should have. The entire incident spanned less than three minutes between perfectly fine and three body bags.

Grant had zero delusions about the work he was getting into. Slade had told him how it was all during his training. Others had stories too. The reality still took some adjusting to. He had been warned of that too, even by his father. He had been warned too that no matter how many times he was told he would end up learning it the same way everyone in the business did; the hard way. If he came out the other side alive he would be all the wiser for it.

Now, staring at his plate of goulash as his mother sipped some wine and his brother fidgeted in boredom, all he could see was the way the skin was torn around his teammate’s entrance wound. The one Grant had put there, accident or not.

He wasn’t about to blubber and cry, but he was pissed. Pissed at the job, and at himself. Only two jobs in and his rep would carry a blemish for this. The only reason he had a chance to recover it at all was because the official was still breathing, mission accomplished, but he would have to work long and hard before others would have much faith in working with him.

Blessedly, his mother didn’t ask how his day was. She never asked his father, she could guess. Not that he would talk about it anyway. Grant wasn’t about to either.

“Joey,” his mother spoke up, drawing the 16 year old’s attention away from the napkin he was picking at. “Why don’t you tell your father about the gallery?”

Joey slumped a bit more in his chair actually.

Slade didn’t even look up from his plate, but it was obviously he was waiting even as he continued to chew his food.

Joey mumbled around his words, just barely audible, like he was making a confession of a sin. “Mr. Gretski asked if he could enter three of my works into a gallery showing this last weekend and they all sold.”

Slade gave a grunt to show he heard, but no further acknowledgement as he finished his plate.

It had become obvious early on that Joey wasn’t going to go into the ‘family business’. He was too soft. Too disappointing. Sometimes Grant hated just being around him for it. Especially whenever he was painting or composing music or whatever sissy interests he had taken up. He might have been a prodigy, but what was the point? Where was the pride when at the end of the day his little brother was left as some scrawny blonde Bob Ross wanna-be with his baby curls that never straightened out. Possibly much like the rest of him.

Joey would forever be weak, Grant was certain of it, and after all the work he had put in to make himself strong… it grated at him relentlessly.

Six years ago Joey had received a gun for his tenth birthday, just the same as Grant had. That had been where the similarities had ended.

Slade spent weeks with him, teaching him about it and how to clean it and care for it. Where as Grant had soaked up the time spent with his father, Joey grew more and more reluctant. Like their father’s sudden attention was a burden placed upon him. Even watching from the sidelines, Grant could see the distance only growing between Joey and their father.

He had gone along when it came time for Joey to use the gun for the first time, the cans set up and ready to go as they had been with him.

As a general rule, their father actually swore only very rarely. Grant had heard plenty pass his lips that day, however, when after the first shot Joey had been so startled he actually dropped the gun on the gravel, putting several scratches on the barrel and cutting a dent into the handle. Thankfully it hadn’t gone off again, but by the time their father tried to insist that Joey try again he was actually shaking so bad Grant thought he would pass out.

Worse.

Joey had wrapped his arms around himself so that their father couldn’t even try to hand him the gun, and started crying.

Grant and Slade both had just stood there for a few minutes, staring down at the ten year old like he was an alien creature.

At length, Slade had let out a long sigh and ordered them all back to the house. Joey cried quietly to himself the whole way. When they got back they were met at the door by their mother.

She took one look at Joey’s crying face, turning to Slade for an explanation.

Grant had watched their father simply take Joey’s shoulder in a light grip and placed him in front of his mother before continuing in without a word, calling for Grant to follow.

It was an unspoken rejection in Grant’s eyes. Joey had only looked relieved, and Grant had wanted to rage at him all the more for not caring any more than he did when something like that would have all but killed Grant.

If his father shared any of Grant’s disappointment and anger towards his youngest he hid it well, focusing instead on Grant’s training out of the two sons.

Joey seemed perfectly willing now to let the subject of his art drop, but their mother tried to coax him to press on. “Which three paintings did they present?”

Grant didn’t understand why she was dragging this out. She hardly cared about art either. As if any of them would ever miss it if Joey never talked about his paintings ever again.

“The two I did of the creek that cuts through the woods behind the house, and one of the piano in the sitting room,” Joey shrugged.

Slade looked up from his plate then, his eyes sharp on Joey in a way that instantly had everyone’s guard up. “You’re doing paintings of the property?”

Grant’s mind caught up to his father’s; the words ‘security risk’, flashing behind his eyes and he pegged Joey with the same cold stare. So he wasn’t the only one screwing up today after all.

Adeline leaned forward a bit, her tone calm and assuring. “I saw them beforehand, Slade. They’re close ups that give away nothing sensitive. No layouts, no locations.”

After a moment their father went back to eating with another low grunt of affirmation. “Find new topics,” he merely instructed after a moment. The beginning and end of the conversation.

There was no reason for Joey’s minor screw up- if it could even be called that- to make Grant feel any better about his own at all. None. They weren’t even remotely comparable. Still, there was a small solace that Grant managed to find in not being the only one to screw up in the family.

It would be mere months later that their father would prove himself fully capable of making mistakes as well.

 

X

 

Grant found himself staring at his little brother. He looked even smaller than normal in the large hospital bed, unmoving and very much like the child he still was even with all the tubes and IVs connected to him. The thick gauze circling his throat where it had been cut making him seem so fragile.

Peabody had come to the hospital too, having been with him when Grant had first heard about the incident, sitting next to him now in silent support against the wall.

Their mother was at the bedside, her cheeks streaked with tears, but she wasn’t actually crying anymore as she held Joey’s hand tightly in her own and brushed his damp curls out of his face.

He wasn’t in critical condition anymore. Stable. The doctor had informed them maybe 30 minutes ago that Joey would survive, and gone over all the details of the damage that had been done and what they could fix with the surgery. Adeline had cried openly in a way Grant had never seen before in his whole life when they were told Joey would never be able to speak again because of the irreparable damage to his vocal cords.

The details he had gotten from his mom had been spotty at best, something about it being all his father’s fault. That he had been sloppy, and they had had to go after Joey when terrorists had taken him. They wanted information from Slade, and he had refused to give it. He gambled his youngest son’s safety, betting he was good enough to kill them before they could cut Joey’s throat. He hadn’t been.

Grant had a vague understanding from his mother that she was the reason his father was in a different room now, with his own doctors and nurses fighting to bring him around too while Wintergreen watched and waited.

Grant knew without any doubt that whether they succeeded or not, things were never going back to the way they were before.

 

X

 

The divorce wasn’t messy, but it wasn’t easy. Like severing a part of your body because you would die if you didn’t, his father and mother’s break from each other was quick, absolute, and incredibly painful to bear.

They were fighters. Both of them. it was what they knew, how they had made it this far.

Neither fought during the proceedings at all.

Slade had lost an eye to his mother’s wrath for Joey’s near-death and subsequent suffering, but managed to fight his way back to otherwise full health, and regaining a dead accurate shot regardless, but didn’t fight against Adeline when she served him the divorce papers.

Grant had watched him sign them, though he looked as grim as if he was signing a death warrant.

He gave her the house. Agreed to whatever she asked for in alimony, more in fact. Agreed too to a restraining order and no contact with Joey. He would have agreed to one for Grant too but Grant refused it, still intent on taking up the business he had been trained his whole life for. He still needed Slade, which neither parent contested further.

Slade moved out and far away, holing up in one of his safe-houses across the country for a few days before he started snapping up jobs left and right once more.

Some Grant got to help him with, and after about a year he started picking up his own jobs too, his rep growing and on the fast track to being as strong as his father’s within a handful of years.

He set up his own safehouses to work out of. A few that his father knew about. A few that he didn’t that Grant was very proud of himself for. Especially after he showed Peabody one of them and his friend helped him come up with a few improvements and new devices for additional security and coverage.

He had been at a girl’s place, however, when Peabody had finally managed to track him down one day, looking more scared than Grant had ever seen him.

With the strange girl glaring between Peabody and Grant for the intrusion, wrapped in a flimsy bed sheet, Peabody had refused to say anything until Grant was half-dressed and out in the car that his friend had waiting for him.

“Dad’s trying to find him now. Countless fatalities. No idea if it’s still going on or not, but most likely it is. I don’t know how they found them, Grant. I’m so sorry I just… and then when Slade found out… when he saw what they did…I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for days, man! I finally had to come looking.”

“Peabody, take a breath. What the hell are you on about? I just got back from a mission a few days ago. I’ve been celebrating is all. I lost my phone the other night is all. Some girl’s house- I think her name was… I couldn’t even guess actually. But I roughly remember where the house was-“

“Grant!” Peabody shouted, and something in his tone told Grant he needed to listen.

“Grant, my dad is trying to track down yours right now, but he went after… There was an attack, Grant.” Peabody started speaking slowly, carefully, his eyes stayed locked with Grant’s the whole time as he tried to explain.

“There was an attack on your old house, Grant. Adeline and Joey were there. Grant… I’m so sorry-“

He wasn’t able to hear anything else Peabody said after that. He was only vaguely aware his best friend was even still speaking. For a moment he wondered if he had passed out, everything felt so numb. But he was still awake, sort of. Still sitting up and staring back into the distraught eyes of his best friend even though Peabody was fighting for calmness as he continued speaking words Grant couldn’t hear nor begin to understand through the pounding that had started in his head.

His heart was hammering in his chest, a cold sweat starting to drench him, but he couldn’t understand why. Couldn’t understand what was happening. Knew that he didn’t want to because when he did it would be… bad.

He could feel his training trying to kick in, telling him to force himself into awareness when he wasn’t automatically. He struggled against it, clinging to the few moments he could get of ignorance yet.

“Grant, I’m so very sorry,” Peabody’s voice managed to break through that haze of shock. “They didn’t survive.”

 

X

 

Grant found out later that it had again been his father’s fault. Too sloppy, not covering every loose end like he used to when the family was together. He thought they would be safe now that he wasn’t there and let his guard down just enough for the house to be tracked down by some pissed off friends of one of his hits. Apparently the guy had a LOT of very good friends that went in full force; demolishing the house Grant had spent half his life in with a spray of bullets and WMDs.

A month later Wintergreen and Peabody managed to track down his father, barely sane halfway across the world with a trail of bodies that nearly doubled his life’s entire kill count up to that point.

Grant didn’t go see him. Even when he was back in the states. Grant didn’t know what he would do if he did see him, frankly. Maybe he would try to take his other eye. Maybe that wouldn’t be nearly good enough.

Instead, Grant gave Peabody the slip after a few days, leaving several grand in cash to compensate for everything he had broken in both his friend’s car and apartment during his fits.

He had gone off the radar for about a week, knowing how to stay unfound if he didn’t want to be. He didn’t remember most of the week, just flashes of half-recollections of booze, drugs, and a few sloppy fucks and fights before he eventually passed out long enough to sober up a bit, waking up in an alley in a city he had never been in spooning a bag of trash.

He bummed a lift from a nice older gentleman by pretending he had a weapon and threatening to use it if the guy didn’t take him about 40 miles away to his closest safe-house. He didn’t have gas money, but he slipped the guy a card with a burner phone’s number on it and told him to get a hold of him if he ever needed someone killed. The man had about pissed himself then and there as he sped away.

Grant hosed himself off and got back to work, burying himself in job after job and his rep morphed a bit for it, making him known for being extra brutal in his dealings.

It was a little over a year down the road when Grant heard about a job offer that his father had apparently turned down. He didn’t know the why of it, but the fact that he had passed on it made Grant want to perhaps prove himself capable of it. A contract that sent him after Midnighter.

It ended up being the hardest and most drawn out contract Grant had ever taken up, Midnighter narrowly slipping away from him again and again. It was starting to look like the guy was just untouchable. Grant refused to give up a contract once he accepted it, however, and eventually he caught up to him in an abandoned warehouse. The problem was it wasn’t entirely abandoned. Grant had been too impulsive, not taking the time he should have to check into it because after months of chasing the masked vigilante his tunnel vision to finish the job had blinded him. He walked right into a trap.

Midnighter made it look easy, which hurt way worse than being restrained and beaten to within an inch of his life. He didn’t know what history the guy had with his father, but he seemed to have a grudge, talking about him and even quoting him as Grant’s head spun with a severe concussion.

Grant barely registered when the guy left, only noticing the bomb he had left behind as a parting gift seconds before it was set to detonate. Grant pushed with his legs on dumb instinct to get away, only managing to flip his chair back, his head smacking the floorboards as his last seconds ticked down and he knew he wasn’t going to make it this time.

 

X

 

He was dead, except… it hurt more than he thought it would. It was every kind of pain. Aches, stabs, throbs, pins and needles, burning fire… seemed to spread randomly throughout his body in the darkness.

Body.

That didn’t seem right.

He had never really given it much thought, but Grant never assumed maintaining a physical body would be a part of the whole death experience.

He felt his hand clench, somewhere at his side, between two hard and sharp materials that shifted just a little bit with the movement.

This wasn’t right.

This wasn’t death.

But it was dark, and he was definitely confined, trapped under… he wasn’t sure what exactly. For a moment the thought crossed his mind of being buried alive, and although he had to choke down the panic that made him want to retch and scream at the same time, it brought him further into awareness.

He could move most of his body, at least shift it around a bit. The only thing pinned seemed to be his left foot, protected from being crushed by the nth armor of his suit. He could leave the boot if he had to. What worried him was half of his left hand was crushed and broken, at least three fingers right down to the wrist. There was blood pooled in his back-plate, and he wasn’t sure if he was still bleeding or not, nor just how bad. There were chains still dangling from his not-broken wrist, but the chair they had bound him to before was in splinters around him.

He wiggled until he found a chance at making a path above his head, some of the debris giving way. He had no idea what direction he was crawling in as he pulled himself along, gravity only giving him hope that it wasn’t down into the ground. He only prayed he didn’t move anything that brought the whole thing down upon him.

By whoever’s grace, a few hours later he reached sunlight, or twilight at least as he allowed himself to tumble haphazardly down the side of the rubble onto the street. Every part of him was screaming in pain and he was missing several pieces of armor, couldn’t even guess the extent of the damage. He if he was indeed dead, at least now he was the walking dead.

He started laughing at the humorlessness of it all, especially when after a few minutes he recalled those last final moments before the bomb went off.

He had heard from several people that their lives flash before their eyes, or sometimes just a weird memory, or a dumb random fact, or anything in-between as the brain flooded with adrenaline.

Of all things, Grant had thought about Slade. Memories he had all but forgotten till that moment.

Dumb memories. Useless ones.

Being about three years old, waking up from a nap on their old couch on his father’s chest, looking up to find he had fallen asleep too, still snoring softly with an arm draped over Grant’s back. Those snores eventually lulling him back to sleep.

He recalled the first time he got to meet Wintergreen, only a couple years older and carried on his father’s hip as he used his free one to shake the hand of his old friend in greeting. He had placed Grant on the ground, right in front of him with his hands on either of Grant’s little shoulders and introduced him. ‘This is my eldest son,’ he had said, and even now Grant could recall the thick pride in his voice at the time. ‘Grant, say hello to Wintergreen.’

‘Hello, Mr. Wintergreen,’ Grant had managed, addressing him respectfully with Mr. like his mother had taught him when meeting adults. Wintergreen had stooped down to his level to return the greeting. ‘Well aren’t you a fine young man. The split-image of your father. I have a little boy just a year or two older than you. You’ll have to meet each other sometime,” Wintergreen had smiled. “I hear you’re going to be a big brother very soon. I’m sure you’ll be a great one too. No doubt you’ll give them someone to look up to.’

‘Thank you,’ had been the response given.

Wintergreen had given him a cheery smile and stood back up to address Slade once more. ‘You have every right to be proud. He’s certainly your son through and through. Thank goodness he has his mother’s charm though,’ the older man had laughed.

Slade had laughed too, one of the few times Grant had ever seen him do so.

When he had been around the age of seven, he had been wrestling around on the floor of the living room one night with Joey- not entirely playing. Grant had been fed up that he had kept bugging him about playing together when Grant had already been playing with his toy army men. He was being too rough with Joey, who had started crying out about how it hurt too much. His father and mother had been on the couch, watching the news over their son’s heads. They weren’t concerned by the scrap until Joey started outright screaming because Grant nearly broke his arm. Slade had gotten up and Grant thought for a terrifying minute that he would get the belt for it, but was surprised when Slade gently untangled them and then pulled Grant in front of him, keeping Joey at his side. He had kept Grant’s arm in a light hold, instructing Joey on how to break a hold if Grant ever got him in one again. He practiced the move slowly and gently with Grant a few times, then switched so Grant could try it on him. Joey had lost interest after a few minutes, climbing up onto the couch with their mom, but Grant wanted to learn more, doing the move over and over again while his father pretended to be too weak and slow to stop it.

‘What about after? What do I do once I’m free?’ Grant had eventually asked.

Slade had smirked. ‘You either run away, or you take them down. Like this!’

Oh so gently, he had tackled Grant down, sprawling on the ground over him while he laughed and wrestled against his father with delight.

‘Once your opponent is down… what’s next, Captain kane? Mercy for the weak?’

His mother chucked warmly from back on the couch. ‘Take no prisoners, soldier. Tickle him into complete submission.’

Grant had started laughing and screaming even before Slade could start.

When he was 16 and back fresh from the military academy, he had managed to get a date with a girl from the nearest town. A cashier at the local grocery store, but with an amazing set of tits that had developed early.

He had his mother’s permission to go, but there had still been a curfew. At ten o clock sharp the security systems would all activate and he would officially be late and locked out. He rolled up to the gates around 3 am on his motorcycle.

Slade was actually home, returned from a mission… and he was waiting at the gates. Grant tried to keep his head up as he walked his Harley up to his father and lifted his helmet so he could hear whatever tongue lashing he was about to get.

‘Your mom said you were out with some girl. Is that why you’re just getting back now?’

Grant nodded his head, unsure if he should be embarrasses or just dreading the imminent punishment.

His father didn’t look mad, but sometimes that could be more dangerous. ‘Do you need condoms?’ he had asked then, his tone flat.

Grant had been too stunned to answer right away. The embarrassment had set in though. With colored cheeks he simply shook his head. ‘I have some already.’

Slade nodded his head and clapped Grant on the shoulder… almost approvingly if Grant had to describe it as he started opening up the gates. ‘Get up to the house then. Try not to wake your mother.’

Grant had been halfway up the drive when he started grinning to himself, unsure exactly why but unable to stop.

The last memory seemed the most random to him.

He remembered the day after he had fouled up guarding the official. After he had unintentionally sent a bullet right through the skull of his teammate.

There hadn’t been any ceremony about it or anything, but the next day his father had handed him a helmet and mask, similar to his own, except for in color, made of nth metal. Bulletproof.

‘You’ll wear this from now on,’ was all he had said.

And Grant did.

Grant pulled that same helmet off of his head, turning it around to see it was a wreck.

The memories weren’t bad ones… but the way they balled and sat in Grant’s stomach like a sack of rusty nails…

Those times had been so far and few in between it just made him want to spit with the bitter taste it left on his tongue. Back in his sound mind again they were far outweighed and stamped down and smothered like dying embers by all the harsh lessons and the loss his father had caused. Always dogging Grant just to turn around and be even more reckless. Even more short-sighted. Even more of a screw up. Grant didn’t know how he was alive, but the fact that by every right he should have died.

This was not his blame to bear. This was Slade’s. One more member of the Wilson family that should not have survived the path Deathstroke had led them all down for the sake of his own pride.

Grant was better than this. Deserved better than dying in a grave of rubble chasing some foe or fan of his father’s. Deathstroke had bred and raised him to carry on his legacy of death and destruction. He had wanted his own name to be carried on more than he had wanted to actually have a son.

Grant tucked his helmet under his arm and dragged himself to his feet to start limping his way through the allies to one of his secret bases.

He'd hate to disappoint. He would live up to that legacy that he should have been killed trying to obtain just now. He had a new target though.

He would help spread the news of his own death. He would keep off the radar. He would be smart about it, bide his time. And then, when he was ready, he would truly fulfill the legacy he was to inherit, by killing his own father for it.

 

X

This fiction is meant as more of a foundation set up for the Deathstroke “Legacy” arc in the New 52. If you haven’t already read that series it’s fantastic and I urge you to do so. Or at least go read the summery at  
https://thecomicvault.wordpress.com/2017/07/01/deathstroke-legacy-review/  
to learn how this particular version ends for Grant. Thank you and please leave feedback, or at least a kudos to let me know if you enjoyed this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and if you are interested in more of my work both professional and for fun you can find me on tumblr under Irishgrlnextdoor  
> or on Instagram at Rnfloyd_official


End file.
